My father collects dismembered female meatsfrom the tandoor and gutters,puts them in my mother’s street;I’ve grown out of that womb where I wasn’t a mistake;there are hardly any left like me; a secret.

Milk, I drink, to grow naughty thingsyes, my pussy, my tits,all those inner poetry men love to eat,burn their mouths with plates of pure bodily-bits,offerings—to be honest—more importantthan trays of dumbest kiss.

I walk up to the village square, whereseventy-nine sons gather,swear to reach behind my zipper.Watching same-sex locking horns with one another,I overhear worrying men calculating aboutolder factories at their lair.

Given the scale of such threats, I smile.Evolutionary-urges once again arevirile. Convinced, I lead the masqueradeof my double crossed genes.

June Nandy's recent works have appeared in qarrtsiluni, Commonline Zine and elsewhere. Her collection of poetry, The lines must die has recently been published in India. Other details of her work can be accessed at:throughmystripedshirt.blogspot.com